Those who made us great
by Sachi93
Summary: "Behold, these are the stories of people who made their nations great. Musicians, writers, sculptors, painters, explorers. They all left a mark in history. They've all beat the world with their voices!"
1. Austria: The composer

**Hi, this is a translation of a story that I create for the italian fandom, I hope that you will like it!**

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_**The composer.**_

A little "do", tiny, like a seed.  
That musical note was sounded powerful in the large living room, arousing the audience from a sincere mind-numbing.  
They had already heard extraordinary compositions and daring composers .  
But him, he fed the curiosity of those present.  
Even of Italy, who was timidly hidden behind a curtain.  
As if with that "do", so simple after all, he would have like to donate a new wonder .  
Catching everything and everyone with his crystalline voice .  
That genius just unveiled, running his fingers skillfully, revealed in our minds a world no longer barren .  
Without political unions, without unnecessary quarrels with Prussia, only the music danced with him.  
How did he create such a spell, even I could not comprehend .  
What kind of soul could make some simple notes , so sublime .  
A fresh source.  
A mountain breeze.  
A gloomy rainy day.  
Really indefinable .  
And that tiny little seed grew, step by step , from note to note .  
The pure talent was in those hands, in the mind, in that heart .  
Stunning.  
No one dared to breathe, not to break the enchantment .  
Then IT ended.  
Suddenly, in a single stroke, slipping away like mist.  
And I felt lost.  
That's right, lost, as if a part of me had been left in the melodic world and trapped at the end.  
Yet, strangely, I was happy , for the first time it felt really good .  
So with my heart in my hand I thanked him, because getting lost, I found a bit ' of peace .  
The composer stood up, bowed slightly, and finally the entire court, under everyone's eyes, ran to embrace the ' Empress.  
An unexpected gesture, which rose a slight buzz among those present  
Maria Teresa, pleasantly surprised, replied affectionately the embrace .  
She was a mother, albeit Archduchess Empress.  
And in the end despite being a composer, Mozart was just a baby .

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**Author's note:**  
**Hi, guys!**  
**What do you think about this idea?**  
**The principal character of our tale is Austria with his first meeting with Mozart. **  
**Now I have to tell you somethig, when I was in Vienna, our touristic guide told us a legend, she said that at his firt concert in front of the Empress and her court, at the end Mozart hugged Maria Teresa, as she was his mom, I don't know if it is true or not, maybe no, but I'd like to think that it is.**  
**So in this story I want to talk about the people who made great their countries, some tales about every nation are in the italian fandom yet.**  
**Well, I hope you will like it.**  
**Kisses,**  
**Sachi93.**

**P.S.**  
**( . ?sid=1813289&i=1) This is the link of the original story in italian.**


	2. Prussia: And then he called him AWESOME

**Hi guys, sorry for the delay!**

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_**And then he called him AWESOME**_

_Awesome!_

Everyone was wondering why he was always calling himself the Awesome, when it was obvious that he was not.  
Maybe pure selfishness , perhaps a desire to focus on himself.  
Who knows.  
The fact is that, after passing centuries, curiosity on that damn nickname, faded and everyone became accustomed to hearing Prussia call himself so .  
Always with that arrogant smirk and that laugh printed on the face .  
But in a certain way, maybe they didn't perceived the reason, one of the most noble, something that united them a bit, and yet still they were not asking.  
As if that silence full of questions, it was a ' acceptance of that eccentric nickname.  
It was the symbol of a memory.  
In the deep of Prussia, no matter what others might think of him .  
Of why or how, it was dubbed in that way.  
Prussia just wanted to know that person, even in the afterlife, would have known.  
Because the only one who was really interested in Prussia, not as a nation, but as a mere mortal, as if he was simply Gilbert, was dead for centuries.  
For _Der Alte Fritz_, Prussia was really important.  
It was not just a nation, but the son he never had.  
Who he had spent a whole life in the fields, in the fire of battle, for.  
Who he had created a kingdom that was at its height for.  
That one who was falling asleep to the gentle sighs of his flute .  
That one who, after the great battle, was slumped on his knees, sobbing like a child.  
Perhaps because he had lost again .  
No, not for _Friedrich_.  
For the first time he had won .  
He had won himself, his own integrity.  
Never more so divided.  
For this reason, there, kneeling with him, heedless of the mud clinging to the pants, with a hand on his shoulder, the _old Fritz_ called him Awesome.  
So with his eyes dazed, shocked by surprise, Prussia watched him riding away to return to the camp.  
For the first time , the eyes of someone , he was not a nullity .  
For this reason, every Sunday, disappears from circulation, regardless of the noisy and boring meetings, time merciless grieved over him, on that white fringe stuck to the front of the grave and gray in the open space of a garden.  
A bunch of flowers dripping , an empty bottle of beer and some potatoes to keep company at that former nation that toasted, in the rain, at the soul of Fritz .  
And he did not care anything at all, if others considered him only a fanatic egocentric megalomaniac .  
Because for that father failed , he would always called him Awesome.  
The important thing was that Fritz did really believe in him.

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**Author's note:**  
**Hi guys!**  
**This chapter is dedicate to all people who love Gilbert!**  
**Friedrich was a great king, that grow up the power of Prussia in Europe, in fact after the Seven Years War, even if he didn't won, he affirmed the union of his reign, therefore it is as if he won his unit.**  
**Now you see Frederick II was married but had no children, he hated his wife, but he loved his sister intensely and he was also her best friend, so it is not true that he hated women, he could not stand certain types; he was also a talented musician of the flute.**  
**In a picture hanging out on the internet I saw that on old Fritz' s grave, as well as there were some flowers also wore potatoes, in fact he introduced the cultivation of this tuber in Germany.**  
**However the explanations I sincerely hope that you enjoyed the story, the next chapter is about France.**  
**Kisses,**  
**Sachi93**


	3. France: Versailles - The king deceiver

**Hi, in this chapter I introduce to you two different story, I'd like to know which of this two do you prefer**

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_**1°**_

_**Versailles**_

Tell me France, what do you feel as you walk through my immense gilded salons?  
You remember fluttering skirts of the ladies, powdered wigs men, rivers of alcohol, the playing cards, the refined foods and intrigues worthy of the best brothel.  
Or remember the soft wind that caressed her hair, fair skin, the scent of chocolate and champagne, you remember the grief over the loss of his children, his loves and the inability to be accepted by that mass of corrupt nobility.  
But you think again about you people that died, suffered, fought and won to survive and remain with their son, in a time that abandoned the ephemeral splendor to challenge the guns.  
In the blade's her death, in the blade your rebirth, she that was the symbol of those decline  
Between your lips that three words sound again.  
And your hearth is full of proud, while you're opening the doors of my Gallery.  
Do you still remember the laughter of traitors, the cries, the prayers and you see his face, noble, proud, unaltered, even in front of the death.  
You that accepted her, now you saw her to leave this world.  
In the fire your tears, into the fire his smile, that she had become your savior.  
Now, in this bright anthro is listen only the echo of your footsteps, lost in those memories and those voices, while a joyful spring sun enters in this palace, and a flock of white doves rises to greet him.  
Tell me France, in what age did you leave your heart?

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_**2°**_

_**The king deceiver**_

The red silk robe slipped in his footsteps all inside of the castle.  
Accompanied by the sound of those heels echoing in the corridors, a man always just looked straight ahead.  
A dull sound, one after one, following the rhythm of the heartbeat .  
Audible even in the great hall of Fontainebleau.  
They came thundering in his ears .  
And Francis , that annoying ticking of those red shoes instilled a sort of fear , a gesture of disgust.  
A scary, almost reverential .  
He admired the man.  
That cynical coldness, made him superior to all .  
His every gesture, every bow uttered as he entered, each his penetrating gaze, he could create a hardship in the soul of Francis .  
Imperceptible to the eyes of ordinary people, but to him, the cardinal nothing escaped .  
A small tremor took the hand of the nation, who immediately hid holding his faithful foil .  
Francis had to admit, without his undeniable strength and readiness, now he would not have been so powerful.  
He owed him so much .  
But he also had taken away much of his people.  
He had managed to tame the nobles, reduced to mere dust the Huguenots .  
And in those few years of his gleaming , he managed to make it big.  
Yet in the eyes of Francis as he crossed the hall, while he uttered another of his deep bows, he saw a man of the church .  
It was not just a Cardinal , was not a mere minister.  
Staying in the shadow behind the royal throne, he had to maneuver every moment of political life.  
An unscrupulous manipulator , brilliant strategist and a political absolutist .  
He was the true king of France.  
He, Richelieu.  
The king deceiver .

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**Hello readers!**  
**As you read, the first story is the same palace to give voice to the thoughts of France, so I thought that for once a palace could express much more than just glitz.**  
**Obviously, the three words are: liberté, égalité, fraternité!**  
**So our characters are Jeanne D'Arc and Marie Antoinette, two female figures very opposite.**  
**In the second the protagonist is Richelieu, not a simple man, but a real macchinatore and calculating, he did everything to protect the real power and increase it, making France a real absolute monarchy.**  
**I hope you enjoyed, so please leave a review.**  
**Kisses,**  
**Sachi93**


	4. England: The Queen and a book

_**The Queen and a book**_

Who the hell was that?  
This was the question that echoed in Arthur's mind.  
But... God, those guys were phenomenal.  
Been ages since his soul had tasted that feverish feeling of glory.  
Yes, it was glory, that tremble Arthur in the chair.  
Abandoning a boring gossip magazine, he tried to capture every note, every voice so as not to miss anything of that feeling now far away.  
And unconsciously laughed.  
He had never felt so elated.

_Bohemian Rhapsody._

So the radio called it.  
And yes, Arthur found himself turning to his living room, stumbling from time to time between the slippers and the Persian carpet, trying to memorize the words.  
Smiling at each vibration of the floor boards.  
Hearing that song that penetrated the walls.  
Scratched doors.  
Awakened the memories of the sea that pirate had been hiding.  
And it was like to feel alive again.  
Yearn the stars and groped, hoping to touch them, remaining dazzled by their every slight.

But the years passed and the feeling of life left him one morning, on 24 November 1991. *  
To sudden every trace remains of that euphoria faded, hidden in the farthest corner of a drawer in the attic.

That night, Arthur was reading a book, which by a strange quirk of fate had fallen on his foot as he walked out from a book shop.  
He had not noticed the colored cover, the author's name, but only to the title.

_Harry Potter_

He said whispering softly, as she rubbed her toe and wondered how he had repeatedly made the book to fall off the shelf.  
But now, the foot does not hurt anymore , but kept repeating that name, to make sure it was true.  
And now he found himself in that chair , that for a long time acted as his companion, together with his inseparable radio that he knew more than all his tastes .  
Yet that night ... yes, that evening after a long time had turned off the radio, took a dusty old record player and an album.

_Nostalgia ._

That book had awakened in him a great desire to live again those feelings that he had dozed off .  
The disc was still intact, with no cuts or scratches .  
He put it here and ... here is the feeling of pure happiness that invaded again the soul.  
And he wept like a child, reading every word , listening to every vibration of a soul that was.  
Tears ran down the hot pages, leaving a visible sign , melted some point of ink, Arthur smiled, laughed, after so long.  
It was an evening, June 30, 1997. *

Still on a shelf in his library, hidden in the shadows of a rainy November afternoon while Arthur tries in vain to chase Peter , a book by dissolved words and an album by its cover worn keep company with those joyous laughter that stand out in a room , no longer so empty.

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**Hi guys!**  
**The first date is the death of the famous singer Freddie Mercury of Queen, the second is the date of the first publication of the book Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.**  
**Well, I made this story because I'm a big fan of the Queen and Harry Potter along with the right mix seemed to tell a crabby England out of context.**  
**I sincerely hope that you enjoyed it, I know it was a gamble, but I wanted to see the result of this pastiche of events.**  
**Please Review!**  
**Sachi93**


	5. Spain: Even the kings are mere men

_**Even the kings are mere men**_

Spain remained hidden in the shadows , on the sidelines, away from the bed of pain.  
And the king, he was next to her.

_"Your Majesty may have other wives , but none ever will love it as me." *_

In that short sighed, his hand slipped away .  
As well as the tears that came to take the company.  
You, the only one who had loved him in spite of his horrible appearance, his incapacity.  
She, her sad rare bud, had left him alone.

A little hand tugged at the sleeve of uniform Antonio and squeezed between his fingers.  
Romano had been all the time behind him, with a pliable dictated innocence in his eyes, brought him back to the reality of that funeral time .  
But Antonio did not reply to that narrow, he was not capable.  
Not in front of that pain.  
And Romano asked no more .  
Because, in his little heart , he had seen too many times death.  
Lowering his head, Antonio stood there .  
To hear those sobs that vibrated perpetual between his lips  
That little hand was no longer embedded in him.

Charles II always bitterly regretted the death of his flower.

Spain had never seen a king cry so much.

On 12th February, 1689, Antonio discovered that even the kings are mere men . 

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_* (Wikipedia)_

**Hi guys !**  
**The story came to me while I was on the way out of the House of Habsburg Spain, the protagonists are Charles II and his wife Maria Luisa of Orleans.**  
**Well, you should know that Charles II was very ugly, because of weddings between consanguineous, but had married a very beautiful woman, it was love at first sight they say.**  
**But problems arose , the couple could not have children and she fell into depression.**  
**One day as she climbed on the horse, she accused a sharp pain in the stomach. **  
**The following night, on 12th February, 1689 she died, Charles was grief-stricken.**  
**I really liked this story, because I'm sorry for him, in fact after her death, he was forced to remarry:****_ "Immediately after his death, the Spanish ministers quickly began to look for a second wife for the king : the candidates were the main Italian princess Anna Maria Luisa de ' Medici and the German princess Maria Anna of the Palatinate - Neuburg . Carlo they showed the portraits of these two possible brides so that he could choose watching them : the king said, " the Lady from Tuscany is lovely and the lady of Neuburg does not seem to be bad at all. _**  
_**" Then Charles turned his gaze on a portrait of the deceased Maria Luisa and, after sighed and said," This woman was really beautiful . " (Wikipedia)**_  
**You see he had to love her very much.**  
**So I thought that as spectators of this sad story, would have been perfect and the little Antonio Romano.**  
**I sincerely hope that you enjoyed it and I would like to know your opinions about this chapter.**  
**Sachi93**


	6. Vatican:The scent of the wild grape must

_**The scent of the wild grape must**_

That was a cruel world, beyond every devilish desire.  
Any doubt there caught fire and disappeared in front of the audacity of those actions.  
Crowds pride and rational ineptitude, made it the master.  
Simply, they survived, they lived in wine, in the joys of life, that moment of pure ecstasy .  
The vibration of an orgasm' s essence.  
Becoming the recesses of ourselves.  
Every day.  
Yet she was distinguished in that uniform vile rabble, she was multiform.  
She, with her golden curls, her white skin and the scent...  
Yes, what each dance, banquet, dinner, hung persistent and tempting our eyes.  
The one which has drunk so much, so much to forget, clouding his mind in scarlet.  
She was a real woman, as if they had never seen in so many centuries.  
And for her family, she was a pawn on the chessboard of alliances.  
Only one woman in the power game of many men.  
She was afraid and did not knew how to take advantage of the slightest adversity.  
Because everything about her screamed to the joy of being.  
The real one, the one that brings with her the pain.  
Not a mask obliged to every sip of that divine nectar.  
And that white hand that trembled in vain, carried to the heart throbbing with emotion, anger, underhanded maneuvers.  
Ah yes, that world was cruel to those who were honest.  
She has not to be.  
At every turn, you listened to an ominous sigh.  
One, and you know that it could separate you from life or death.  
A chill on the skin that covered every day with that essence.  
But she had to be, she had to be able to withstand that my world.  
There was people who said she was a poisoner, a incestuous lover, a highest village's whore .  
She never reached down with fierce pride at every judgment.  
How many people condemned her in life, and those despised in death.  
Ah, but she, unmindful of those looks, with step wandering tall and proud.  
With all her woman's pride, endured the loss of her children .  
Because sometimes, they forgot that she was a mother.  
Sacrificing every possible happiness for them.  
Killing her by pain, when one of her children left her for a better world.  
Yet now, in these my rooms, I think I can speak to you again.  
In the illusion of a sunset over the Tiber.  
And you know what you've listened to, readers, while I'm closing this book.  
A fragrance .  
Does any one, it is the incense that dulls the senses.  
And the scent of life, her life, her essence of woman.  
The scent of the wild grape must.  
Forgive me if I left you. 

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**Hi guys !**  
**Here the character is the Vatican, I set this story as if it was not just a letter to readers, but also at the same Lucrezia .**  
**Honestly reading the story of Lucrezia Borgia, we make many conflicting ideas, but we must remember that 1500 was not only a century dedicated to the Renaissance art, it was a real brothel in the true sense of the word.**  
**If you wanted to survive you had to be a bastard and a murderess in some cases, it was not a world made for honest people, although there are various pros and cons, however, I leave to you the curiosity to know an era.**  
**Returning to Lucrezia, she was a pawn in the hands of her father Alexander VI and her brother Cesare Borgia, but was able to exploit the same time the projects that they had, for their own purposes, in a nutshell was to survive in a world of wolves, of course I have fictionalized some facts.**  
**Greetings to all my readers and see you soon ,**  
**Sachi93 .**


	7. Denmark: The Lady of the North

**The Lady of the North**

Feel the smell of the salt penetrate your senses .  
_She was intended only to marriage._  
Dye your skin.  
_It was said._  
The foam lapping against the bow.  
_She was meant only to procreate heirs._  
The gray water overtop your sails .  
_The throne._  
Hardening your soul.  
_The light of the candles._  
Your ax in your hands.  
_The cadence of homily._  
A deep blue eyes that scan the horizon.  
_The regalia._  
You're great, you're strong.  
_Reigns from high your subjects._  
You're with your brothers.  
_Strong, like a man._  
You furrow with your ships the frozen seas .  
_The crown placed on his head, opened your eyes on them._  
From the top of the bow the world is at your feet.  
_They bow before her._  
Denmark, you are the ruler of the North.  
_But she is the Lady Queen._  
The name of Margaret thunders in your cry of victory .

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**Hi guys !**  
**I'm back.**  
**This is the story of Margaret I of Denmark , the founder of the Kalmar Union as well as the greatest Danish queen .**  
**Sorry if the story is short , I hope you enjoyed it .**  
**Sachi93 .**


	8. Sweden-Sealand: The very rare smile

_**The very rare smile**_

"Who is she?"  
The child had stopped under a huge portrait.  
Sweden looked at him and walked over, trying to find the right words.  
"She was my queen."  
Sealand, looking at the portrait, added: " She was not very good-looking."

A rare smile formed on the man's lips .  
The sincerity of a child is always unsettling , but he was right.  
Christina of Sweden had never been beautiful and she knew it.  
His queen, however, had something that not everyone possessed.  
There were those who had the gift of a great wit, or a supreme intelligence .  
But her, in addition to these special features, she was extremely passionate.  
One of those that penetrates the mind, body and soul.  
That one which she expressed in gestures so unusual for the courts of the time.  
He was not afraid to show the world his forbidden love, often ended up in misery .  
When, in a dark desperation, she fired one of the cannons of Saint Angel Castel, in the beautiful Rome .  
Vatican was not so much happy to see destroyed the gates of a noble villa. *  
At his Cristina did not care if it gave scandal to show his passion.  
That feeling that the reason recantation, was his strength .  
What extraordinary creature, used to say .  
She was his queen.

Sweden placed a hand on of Sealand's shoulder, leading him down the hall and away from that framework .  
All the way up to the house, the tiny nation had thought about the smile of his dad .  
One of those who was born spontaneously, one of those that did not notice the existence in that moment .  
And along the way in the car, that smile was left, even if it was invisible.  
The tests were those little wrinkles around the mouth.  
Then Sealand wondered what had given rise to this unexpected gift.  
Continued to do so, thinking that wonderful and inexplicable dilemma , lying on the couch while watching cartoons .

And the answer came unexpected, on his platform, while the sea was rough and the pier was filled of water.  
It was the memory of that queen, of course!  
With broom in hand, with the risk of being swept away by the imperious wind, he was sure that one day he would become great .  
Then he would have had someone whose memory the would have made him smile, just as had happened to his dad .  
He was absolutely sure .

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**Hi guys !**  
**I hope you enjoyed it!**  
**Who was Christina of Sweden? A unusual queen, masculine character, maybe bisexual, whose strength is denoted in his passion, to the arts, to his Kingdom and to its lovers.**  
**She had given up his kingdom to follow what he wanted, and finally became a Catholic queen stateless person, finding refuge in Rome. It is said that he had an affair with a cardinal, with whom she had an appointment at the Monte Pincio, and when he didn't come, Cristina ran to Saint Angelo Castell, firing one of the cannons, the bullet struck the gates of Medici Villas, today you can see the sign yet!**  
**Regards,**  
**Sachi93.**


	9. Germany: Nietzsche

_**At the end my memory is to surrender. ***_

Everything was turned upside down.  
Every word, every concept .  
And I found myself involved in the tide of the crowd, thrown there.  
A reef in the storm.  
There, with my full uniform, fragrant and neatly folded, shiny shoes and a hat on top.  
For a while, I had believed in that world.  
But ..  
There was a but that left no room for any doubt.  
That philosophy so intense, vibrant, passionate .  
Yes, the essence of that spirit vacant and restless.  
Where was it ?  
Who would collect the remains of that God who had died.  
Who would fight the Apollonian spirit ?  
What was left of the will?  
Lost.  
Along with the crowd cheering, the trumpets announcing a new pleading .  
The applause that accompanied each entry .  
Lost.  
As it was, too.  
So I didn't think to anything more.  
I did not realize that my brother was holding the arm, shaking me from that mindless apathy.  
Brought out from the crowd, looking in empty applauded , too

And Nietzsche was dead.  
I killed him.

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_* "I have done this," says my memory. "I can not have done that " - says my pride , and remains adamant. At the end - my memory is to surrender. (68 , 2007) [ Friedrich Nietzsche : Beyond Good and Evil ]_

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**Hi guys !**  
**Here's to you a story about Germany and Nietzsche, set during one of the many parades that were made during the Nazi era.**  
**The philosophy, the thought of this great philosopher, was manipulated and modified for devious purposes and lowly in recent years, and this is so traumatizing the nation. Everything he used to believe in was radically flaked.**  
**I sincerely hope that you enjoyed the story.**  
**A warm greeting and the next story,**  
**Sachi93 .**


	10. Roman Empire: Ides

_**Ides**_

For Rome, in that single blow, time stood still .  
The dagger that slowly descended.  
The blood that flowed inexorably from the folds of his toga.  
The screams.  
Other shots.  
A knee to the ground.  
An outstretched hand.  
The severe frown of a statue.  
And Caesar fell.  
Gaius Julius Caesar.  
A fancy name thought Rome the first time he saw him.  
A death as echoing.  
As the applause in the arena.  
As the sound of the blade screeching against the skin.  
And then they fell silent.  
Hidden from the edges of the curtains Rome could see a red stain widen.  
Their sandals were kneading his blood.  
Walking, running away, they left footprints, the droplets.  
For his sake whispered to him approaching .  
For the good of Rome, screaming loudly among themselves.  
A son kills his father, the oldest story in the world.  
His words, in a single spasm of a roaring audacity, lie in the eyes of Brutus.  
Under the statue of an ancient enemy.  
While the last pounding is vanished.  
Among the sparkling shimmer of marbles.  
On the Ides of March, Caesar died.  
And for Rome time passed.

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**Hi guys !**  
**Who more than all changed the history of Rome if Caesar himself ! **  
**Here's to you his death under the eyes of an unbelieving and aware - old nation.**  
**Well, I sincerely hope that you enjoyed it.**  
**A warm greeting,**  
**Sachi93.**


	11. Holy Roman Empire: Danke

_**Danke**_

Riding in those days was extremely dangerous, especially if he was for more than just a boy of noble birth .  
Covered by a black cloak, like the wings of a crow.  
He was the one who inspired fear in those who passed by his side.  
Not the bandits, not mercenaries, not God  
He, riding on top of the stud, it seemed a spirit of hell, who came down to earth to reclaim his power.  
So also appeared to officials, as he crossed the dark corridors .  
But not for that man .  
Especially for the one who, in a few years, had managed in a large enterprise .  
Frederick II Hohenstaufen .  
A man.  
Not a mere man, the wonder of the world for his court.  
He, without any prediction as to whether the time, was one of many who had gathered under his throne the Empire.  
The great Rome, the great Roman Empire .  
Against all.  
Daring to challenge even the pope.  
But in those fights between Guelphs and Ghibellines, he had achieved what so many centuries the known world wanted.  
Italy .  
She.  
That little white rosebud that wander among the streets of hers cities, regardless of a soul in torment which he longed to one of his eyes.  
So for many centuries, the Holy Roman Empire secretly loved that nation, hoping for a future 'yes' .  
And as he opened the large door in the great room, surrounded by the suffused glow of the candles, she was finally there.  
A slow steps walked, past the coils of incense, staring into his eyes that small nation that had bowed before him .  
Then, the Holy Roman Empire put a hand on his heart, a little nod, turned to his sovereign and a whisper in a language so far, from the Nordic region.

_Danke_

It was thanks to that emperor, if today he had been able to see, in those specks of gold, his love .  
What he now had with him, now clutched convulsively in his hand.  
It was thanks to him, if that day he had given his first kiss to beloved.  
Thanks to him, his the first meeting with her.  
Yet, today, without that man, he could have never said goodbye.

**Hi guys !**  
**I dedicate this chapter to all lovers of HRExITA .**  
**As you can see, it describes how could be the first meeting between Italy and the Holy Roman Empire.**  
**Frederick II head of the House of Hohenstaufen came to power not only in the Holy Roman Empire itself, but also in the Kingdom of Sicily, including the South Italy, and all of the towns of Northern Italy.**  
**Without Frederick II, our little Holy Roman Empire couldn't meet her in person, or say goodbye to her in the future.**  
**A warm greeting,**  
**Sachi93 .**


	12. Russia: Asphodel

Asphodel

A rustling sounds in the room.  
Set aside the book on the coffee table, next to the glass still full.  
Open windows that open onto the spacious balcony of that house.  
Exhale deeply and let his hand dangle off the railing, echoing the winding iron bars, as an harp.  
And there's his memory that haunts you.  
You, who in your days , you tried not to tarnish his candid essence in clear bottles.  
Stay you and the sound of the wind , which carries away the noise of the big city.  
Tell me what you have left of her.  
A dispel touch on his chest, right?  
A flame that burns in your heart.  
Yet she does not just have to dust in the sky, almost like the ash that falls from your lazy fingers.  
Throw his cigarette butt in the ashtray, trampling careless an empty bottle of vodka on the floor, while a heat burns your throat and a glass slowly falls from your hands.  
The illusion of a warm bedroom, gives way to the snowy view of St. Petersburg downtown.  
Supports the front of the hot to the cold glass of the large window, looking a bit of relief for the pain that grips you.  
In one corner a bottle of red wine, covered with dust.  
Never forgotten, never touched.  
Much like his blood, smeared snow.  
The annoying noise of the cap, a shot in the middle of the forest.  
One of those many bottles rattling drain rolling at your feet, as his body lifeless.  
You have not forgotten the light off in his eyes glazed over.  
And what she has survived in you?  
Her smile so simple and pure.  
The taste of a true love, faded even before birth.  
That lily tight in his hands, torn even before bloom, smeared with patches of life.  
Despite everything, she is here, yet in your heart, even after death, living only in your memory.  
Only she could make you really happy.  
More alive than any other nation.  
Because for you, Ivan, Anastasia was the only one that I had made of you a truly human.  
Yet you continue to look for a second bottle.  
As if the fog of alcohol, could render even more true these memories of a previous life.  
Tell me, Ivan, every day bitterly regret his death?

Hi guys !  
According to Homer 's Asphodel was the plan of the underworld, I thought it was a perfect contrast with a delicate flower like the lily.  
I always thought that Ivan would agree the revolution, but that in the end the brutal death of Anastasia had actually hit him and regretted the past.  
A warm greeting to you all and see you soon,  
Sachi93.


	13. America: Moon

_**Moon**_

There is no darkness, nor the void.  
Only the stillness.  
An apparent calm, yet real.  
Maybe you do not know.  
You can only hear the hum.  
The radio trying to convey something.

_Houston, Tranquility base here. The Eagle has landed._

His voice was trembling, joyful.  
You could have imagined the smile on his lips.  
As your in that room.  
Among the broken breaths of the listeners.  
You would not even feel the sand beneath your feet.  
You can even imagine it.  
Believe that it has a soft consistency.  
Even if you're not to trample the soil.  
You are not there with them.  
But you can still hear those voices.  
Those who will remain imprinted forever.  
As its name.

_That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind._

Neil Armstrong.  
Perhaps America a part of you is still there.

* * *

Hi guys!  
Here's the emotions of America in the face of man's first steps on the moon!  
Have a nice reading.  
Sachi93


	14. North Italy: Sublime

_**Sublime**_

The smell of the powder was penetrating, even some trickles down from the axis to its passage.  
Not to mention the dim light that emanated worn spark plugs.  
Even the sun goes down he continued his work.  
Feliciano was hidden in the shadows, as usual, as if his breath would disturb his work.  
So he saw hurried footsteps going up and down the stairs.  
Stains on the precious marble floor.  
Swearing softly.  
He felt that the fingertips rubbed together to test the consistency of color .  
Indecision to put his soul in that or in other stroke.  
And then decide to give it completely at the end.  
The sighs every drop fall.  
The eyes that quivered in search of that waiting.  
Waiting for the end to say.  
Two hands waiting to touch.  
In that infinite agony of life.  
The concern for the sublime.  
Which is to say soul: Sighs .  
That expectation which had been stopped by last sound of a brush sliding on time.  
He ran a rag in his hands.  
He breathed deeply the pungent smell of the color and lowered his eyes, being in front of a child, little more than a chick frightened, surprised by a clear sky, so alive.  
A rueful smile on the face of Michelangelo was born.  
I wonder if he really gave his soul to the Creation.

* * *

**Hi guys!**  
**The moment that I have described is the creation of the Sistine Chapel ceiling, while Michelangelo depicting the Creation of Adam.**  
**I sincerely hope that you enjoyed it even though I know it is very short!**  
**Thanks.**  
**Sachi93**


	15. Poland: A hand on the window

_**A hand on the window**_

One hand on the starry sky.  
And the footprint remained in the shadows of the night.  
Still hot and humid.  
And the contrast between the fireplace crackling, buzzing with vitality and immense expanse of black that fascinated his mind.  
Like that black wine glass that lies in his hands again.  
The windows wide open in the middle of winter and he folded on the cards to find the infinite astronomical mystery.  
And Feliks stood there staring at him.  
Enchanted in the movements of those perfect circles, elegant and fine writing that covered the thick sheet of calculations.  
And again, raising his eyes to heaven, pursing her lips and squinting, trying to cross the dense texture of the stars.

"You know, I think that I had reached a conclusion." He said, looking the torches on the wall.

" Which one?" Asked the curious nation.

"That in the middle of everything is the sun." He replied, turning his head again and pointing to the sunrise coming through the flap of the night.

To Mikołaj Kopernik, one night was not enough to melt those questions.  
But an entire life was enough to upset the entire universe.  
And for Feliks to know that there is always a light in the darkness.

* * *

**Hi guys !**  
**Here you a quick story , fast and very short on Poland and Copernicus , who upset the theories and settled on our planetary system , with his heliocentric theory.**  
**A warm greeting,**  
**Sachi93 .**


	16. Turkey: From my past

_**From my past ...**_

Come, reader, I want to show you something.  
Look towards East, there is the sea and the waves there, they'll recount you of ancient battles, mythical islands lush and finally an extraordinary land, which has in itself the legends from the Arabian Nights!  
And through vast plains, rivers and mountains capricious high as the sky, you'll see a city between two worlds.  
Here, that is Istanbul!  
You've seen it!  
Now go through its doors.  
Log in and tell me if you perceive the energetic vitality of my city, listen to the song of history that resonates among its monuments and keep his bright colors, savors the badgered rhythm that persists in his veins.  
But the reader must not stop there, no, no!  
You have to cross the immense bazaar, wide streets, narrow passages, follow the high walls of mosques, minarets and in front of you you'll see the shining of a white marble palace, I used to live there, dear reader.  
Open the gate and follow me along the perimeter of the garden, walk the aisle with me, you see we have to climb some stairs and I'll show you the thing which I invited you here for.  
Here, reader, you go beyond that curtain light, do not stop the glare of the sun, because in front of you there's my past !  
And there, standing right in front of you, you manage to catch a glimpse of the man, wrapped in a large white cloak, turban and the masked face.  
You know, it was me, the great Ottoman Empire!  
All this past, I built it by myself.  
Yeah reader!  
Once, as this high arabesque balcony, I saw my burgeoning empire, expand, reach and conquer, trade and live.  
And I felt up the scent of incense, oriental spices, pervade and cover like a golden veil the entire city, manifesting itself in the eyes of foreigners arriving in all its glory.  
I listened to the cries of the merchants in the ancient bazaars, the prayers from the top of minarets, like a sweet lullaby that ran through its many streets, captivating the hearts of listeners.  
I controlled a vast territory from the north where I looked out on the Germanic - speaking people to the south, where the hot desert stretches as far as the eye, to the east where he met the rugged land of the Slavs and west to the tip of the Mediterranean, beyond the Pillars of Hercules.  
And, behold, there right by my side became Suleiman the Magnificent.  
Still I see him, riding his steed that controls the fearless troops to conquer.  
To win over those people.  
On his knees with his sword in his hands, nomadic, rebels, which remained the only pale imitation of a warrior.  
Yet firmly anchored to their weapons, the contempt in the eyes and the pride wounded, but indomitable perpetually.  
Him with the dagger in his hand, the winner of their lands, looking at them, estimating the strength that ill accorded with the clotted blood from their clothes.  
With the look over their puny, watched what remained of the army.  
Yet he wanted to reach out for him, he wanted to give them a chance at life.  
So I thought of the magnificent Sultan.  
The undisputed Lord of the great conquests, the one who made me great.  
The Mediterranean threw open its waves at the mere whisper our name.  
The Italian ground trembled as we passed.  
And the snow of the people of the east melted in our eyes.  
With Suleiman on my side no one dared hinder us.  
But in this splendor fell , victim of my lust for conquest.  
In my ephemeral and past glory , was the creator of heinous sins; reader can tell me how to feel the smell of ashes of my sins?  
Nauseating, isn't it?  
This is the pain that hear my heart!  
How much, how much blood I spilled in my deep and stubborn greed, you can not even imagine it.  
And from this building I saw, like you right now, what I was, what I am, what I will be, for many, many centuries.  
So I ask you to read carefully, to perceive the flavor of each verse, the singing voice of all, grab all meaning and I assure you you'll see the past with my own eyes.  
The truth is that although I am no longer an empire, now I'm Sadiq Adnan , I am Turkey, I have a new face!  
Recount it to those who will come after you!

* * *

**Hello readers!**  
**I state with this story I do not want to offend anyone, I romanticized small historical facts of Turkish history without many hints, I leave everything to your intuition and knowledge.**  
**I must say that I have always been fascinated with the East, because it has a sense of mystery in its culture, that us in the West could hardly understand. But you see sometimes knowing the story really hurts and you do not think that some things can happen, so you should always be prepared to the unpredictability of the facts.**  
**Now back to the story I tried to create a small epic poem and I hope you like it!**  
**A warm greeting,**  
**Sachi93**


	17. Author's note

_**Author's note**_

Hi guys, I'd like to thank you for reading my story, I am very happy that you enjoyed it.  
However, until January 15, there will be no updates, because I have two very important exams, so I can not dedicate much time to the creation of various stories.  
Don' t worry I have not abandoned.

Together with a request from a reader about South Italy, I will write some stories about:

**-Iceland**  
**-Philippines**  
**-Mexico**  
**-Lithuania**

For the EFP fandom in Italy, to the end of this story are missing various chapters about :

**-Ancient Egypt**  
**-Belarus**  
**-South Korea**  
**-Egypt**  
**-Estonia**  
**-Finland**  
**-Hong Kong**  
**-Iceland**  
**-Liechtenstein**  
**-Latvia**  
**-Mexico**  
**-Portugal**  
**-Taiwan**

If you have any idea send me an e-mail.

At the end I wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

**Sachi93**


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